


I've got your body on my skin (and tequila on my tongue)

by bonjourziall (punkjuggie)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Roommates, a tiny lil bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkjuggie/pseuds/bonjourziall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And at that exact moment Zayn didn't feel the need to drown himself in alcohol anymore. Because Niall's lips were far more intoxicating than any brand of tequila and Zayn craved  Niall’s touch more than he craved the burning of the alcohol.<br/>or<br/>Zayn and Niall both start using alcohol as an excuse to keep hooking up with each other.<br/>or<br/>Niall is literally the reason that Zayn is becoming an alcoholic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've got your body on my skin (and tequila on my tongue)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canwecannon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canwecannon/gifts).



> Shoutout to my betas venividivici and and girlsallmighty for putting up with my awful punctuation and severe case of typos. And also thank you to ifzi0531 for keeping me motivated and being awesome in general. Enjoy!

There are many ways to drink tequila.

 

Of course, there are the very trusted and popular shots of tequila “bang bang” you do with your friends at a party when you’ve already had too much to drink and what normally seem like absolutely awful ideas suddenly sound not so bad after all . Depending on the level of tipsiness, you might lick the salt off your own hand, maybe off your friend’s hand, maybe down the chest of the very attractive business major you’ve been eyeing all night long. God only knows.

 

Some like it better white, mixed with ¾ ounce of squeezed lime juice and an ounce of triple sec (or whatever orange liqueur is the best) because, generally speaking, margaritas are the easiest way to gulp down tequila without puking it right out. Also, it looks classy.

 

For Zayn, the only way to drink tequila is straight out of the bottle, feeling it burning down his throat, making it hurt just enough so it’s the last thing he feels before the numbing thrill of intoxication takes over and swallows him whole. Then, only then does he feel alive. When he finally takes the bottle away from his mouth, his vision is blurry but beautiful, and his skin feels hot and alive. His favourite part of drinking is when he finally stops so he can press his nose against the stubble on the hard chin; press his hands firmly on both hips and move them down the curve of the perfect, round, little ass; or press his lips against the pale skin of a bony collarbone.

 

His favourite part of drinking is when he finally stops.

 

+

 

The leather chair feels sticky under his weight. It always does. The huge floor lamp on his left always feels too bright over his head. Though that might just be the remnant of the hangover he tried to fight back before coming over. He hates how the view of the city through the window is actually behind him because he would like to watch something else besides  the intimidating book shelves full of what he assumes are Freud or whatever else shrinks have lying around their offices.

 

It’s raining outside. He thinks about how he would rather watch the little droplets of rain, sticking on the window, leaving their wet trail behind them. He would rather watch the grey clouds consuming the sky, glooming over the city of Baltimore, quiet yet powerful. He looks at the poor little fern on the left side of the leather chair, how inconvenient it is that it has to suffer from the blinding light of the floor lamp. Ferns usually prefer shade. He doesn’t voice that thought though. His mother doesn’t pay his therapist to properly care for stupid plants.

 

She pays her to fix him.

 

“So,” she clears her throat, dropping a glass of ice water on the table in front of him just like she always does. He glances at the glass for a second before moving his eyes back to the doctor. She never comments on the fact that Zayn never touches the water;  Zayn never tells her he secretly wishes it were vodka.

 

She takes out her little notebook, that thing Zayn hates so much. He hates the way she always seems to have something to write whenever Zayn is talking, as if every single word out of his mouth contained something, a secret, a way to make it all better. Zayn scoffs at the idea. As if something within him could actually make him better. That’s just absurd. He hates that she still has notes written even when Zayn isn’t speaking. He hates the way it makes him so self-conscious.

 

He hates the way that notebook may know more about him than he does.

 

He realises he is staring back at his own hand in his lap and forces himself to raise his head and look at his shrink.

 

She is eyeing him intently behind the rim of her thick black glasses. Her dark eyes make him feel uneasy, as if she’s seeing things that Zayn can’t see himself. She has her blond hair up in a ponytail, as usual, and her delicate lips are pursed in a tight line. He wonders what he did to make her mad already. His watch indicates he’s only been here for fifteen minutes, max, so he congratulates himself on a new record.

 

Still, Zayn doesn’t give her the satisfaction of making this session any easier than the previous two, and he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“You know,” she sighs, “your mom worries a great deal about you Zayn.”

 

He rolls his eyes. She continues.

 

“By not talking, you’re wasting your parents’ money,” she tries but before Zayn has a chance to roll his eyes some more she rectifies, “though that would probably be something that would please you.”

 

She’s not wrong.

 

“Look, I’m your therapist and I’m here to help you but I can’t if you refuse to open up to me,” she lays the notebook on the table beside her chair and Zayn relaxes a little. “I know your mom called me for a reason.”

 

_My mom called you because she thinks I’m crazy_ , he thinks.

 

“We can talk about whatever you want,” she pushes on. When Zayn still doesn’t bulge, she prompts him. “Do you want to talk more about your childhood?”

 

Zayn sends her a glare and she smirks. “Probably not. How about that new roommate of yours?”

 

Zayn’s eyes widen and snap back to his lap. He can feel his cheeks heating up, his chest burning, and his heart squeezing in that way it always does. His shrink notices too.

 

“Alright, Zayn, calm down, you know what to do,” she commands, her voice suddenly soothing. “Breathe in, breathe out.”

 

He repeats this pattern for a minute until his chest feels normal again and his heart doesn’t hurt anymore.

 

“Have you been taking your meds?” she asks and God, she sounds like his mother.

 

“Yes,” he answers curtly and then, “Would you mind if we postpone this session? I have a lot of work with school and all,” he lies.

 

“Of course,” she concedes and picks up her notebook again. “My secretary will call you later this week to make another appointment.”

 

“Thank you,” he grabs his backpack at the foot of the lamp and makes his way out of the office.

 

“Oh and Zayn,” she stops him just as he’s about to leave. “Please call your mother. She really is worried.”

 

Zayn nods and heads for the elevator.

 

+

 

Zayn tries to put a date on the day his life drastically changed.

 

It could’ve been May 23, 2012, the day he told his parents he was leaving Bethesda to go to University in Baltimore. The day he told them he didn’t want to rely on their money anymore.

 

It might’ve been July 2, 2014, the day his best friend and roommate announced he was accepted as an exchange student and was going to England.

 

It probably was September 13, the day his new roommate officially moved in with him.

 

+

 

“What the _fuck_ , Louis?” Zayn hushes into his phone. His friend already moved out two weeks ago, staying with his parents before the big departure. “You told me you found me a _suitable_ new roomie.”

 

“ _Yeah, and that’s what I did_ ,” Zayn hears Louis say on the  line, a confused note in his voice that Zayn has since learned is every bit fake and he can only imagine the size of Louis’ shit-eating smirk.

 

“The dude looks like he’s fresh out of a frat house!” Zayn shrieks and immediately slams his own hand over his mouth. He can’t have the new guy hear him having a mental breakdown on the phone. Bad first impression.

 

“ _Bingo!_ ” Louis exclaims and Zayn rolls his eyes. He should have known. “ _His room caught fire_.”

 

Zayn sighs. “Do I want to know how?”

 

“ _Hm, probably not_ ,” Louis replies and Zayn wants to kick his ass so hard he’d send him to England already. “ _Give him a chance Zayn, he’s not all that bad. I know it’s hard for you but open up a little_.”

 

He has a point, Zayn knows that, but he’ll never say that out loud or he’d never hear the end of it. He met Louis in his freshman year of college and clung to him like a oxygen. Zayn met all of his friends - acquaintances really - through Louis.

 

Louis is good with people. Zayn... really is not.

 

“Fine,” Zayn concedes. “But if he turns out to be a pain in my ass, I’ll torment you everyday from the other side of the ocean,” he grumbles into the phone.

 

“ _Yeah yeah, tough guy, whatever you say_ ,” Louis snickers, and Zayn doesn’t bother fighting off the fond smile growing on his face. He’ll miss the guy.

 

However, before he can voice that thought, a loud thump comes from the hallway, along with a string of curse words.

 

“Oh goddamn shit, you fucking motherfucker,” Zayn hears across the thin wall and bites off a chuckle.

 

“Lou, I think I gotta go, I’ll call you later,” he tells his friend and ends the call before Louis can make any more fun of him.

 

He takes a deep breath, stands, and walks toward the door leading to the narrow hallway with what he hopes resembles confidence. He stops in front of the mirror on the back of his door and runs a hand through his hair where it has fallen flat on his forehead.

 

Man, he needs a haircut.

 

He makes sure there’s nothing stuck between his teeth and _is it just him or does his nose looks a little crooked_? He never noticed before but now, at this exact moment, as he is about to step out and greet his new roommate, something is _definitely off_ with his nose.

 

“Hey, buddy, would you mind giving a hand?”

 

The glimpse of blond hair and fair skin he saw briefly before he sequestered himself to his bedroom is even more gorgeous from the front, and Zayn hates himself for even _thinking_ it. Nevertheless, he can’t help but admire the way the fit muscles of the boy’s biceps flex under his dark tank top as he bends over to pick up the box he just dropped. From his vantage point, Zayn also has a perfect view of just how perfectly tight the pants are hugging the guy’s ass, making it round and absolutely delectable.

 

“Uh, you alright over there?” the nameless boy turns around to ask Zayn, a huge box in his arms and sunglasses sitting on his nose.

 

Zayn coughs awkwardly, instantly dropping his eyes to the ground to look inconspicuous only to raise them again a second later when he realises how just suspicious he looked. My god, social conventions are a load of stress.

 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, hi! I’m Zayn,” he blurts out at impossible speed, extending his hand and trying not to cry.

 

“Yeah,” the boy replies, glancing down (or whatever, the douchebag still had his sunglasses on even though they were _inside_? what an asshat) to look at the hand unmoving between them. “And I have an armful of boxes. Wondering if you would ever get out of that room.”

 

Wow. The guy really is an asshole. But Zayn, faithful to himself, simply smiles, shaky and nervous, swallows around the lump in his throat and moves to the front of the flat to grab another box.

 

He also makes a mental note to call Louis first thing when he gets back to the safety of his room so he can scream at him for ruining his life.

 

+

 

Living with Niall has a load inconveniences.

 

The guy is _messy_.

 

There are so many snapbacks littered all over the living room, that Zayn cannot believe a guy can own that many. The only one never lying around is a black and purple Ravens one because it is literally always on Niall’s head.

 

There’s also the kitchen sink, probably fuller than their cupboards at the moment, all of Niall’s dirty dishes, because Zayn is in the habit of washing plates right after using them. _Nerdy_ , Louis would say. At least back then the sink was usable.

 

Niall is also loud.

 

Everything he does is loud. He speaks loud, he listens to music loud, he studies loud, he even eats his cereal loud. He strums his guitar at three in the morning and it’s fucking loud. Sometimes the guitar is set aside much to Zayn’s relief but he now knows that the absence of the music can only mean one thing: Niall is having sex.

 

And boy, is it loud.

 

A positive development, though, is that with time, Niall is less of an asshole (despite his inconveniences). He makes small talk with Zayn around the kitchen table. He offers to fetch milk and bread even though Zayn took the last sip or the last slice. He buys very good alcohol and they help each other study for finals even though Zayn doesn’t give a fuck about criminal justice and Niall still can’t tell the difference between an antithesis and an oxymoron. He makes Zayn laugh when they share a joint on the back porch in the middle of the night.

 

_It could’ve been worse_ , Zayn thinks one night when he’s sprawled out on the couch, still high out of his mind, Niall dozing next to him. It’s been a month since Louis left.

 

It could be worse. But they’re all right at the moment, and maybe it won’t turn to shit.

+

 

Of course it turns to shit.

 

+

 

It happens one night, while they’re on the couch watching the Ravens game.

 

Or Niall is on the couch, screaming at the TV and Zayn is on the floor, papers scattered around him in an effort to work on his term project. He’s got newspapers from all over the state, headlines cut out, some highlighted, others discarded, a real mess. It would be more practical to do it from the comfort of his room, but he promised Niall he’d watch the game with him and Zayn always keeps his promises.

 

Except now he wish he didn’t.

 

“Man, I thought we were gonna watch the game,” Niall tells him during a commercial as he stands up and stretches his arms above his head. Zayn lifts his head at this exact moment and catches a glimpse of pudgy stomach and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.

 

It takes Zayn a lot of willpower to refrain from asking Niall if he is a natural blond because the evidence leading to his dick says otherwise. Zayn has to forcefully shut his mouth and avert his eyes from the glorious scene because he is not sure just how much willpower he actually has.

 

“Aren’t we?” Zayn replies, looking sharply back to his work on the floor.

 

“Uh, no,” Niall tells him, pointing an accusatory finger at Zayn and his mess, accenting every word. “You are working on your final project and not paying attention to the game at all.”

 

Zayn sighs. “You know, football is not really my thing.”

 

“And poetry isn’t mine, yet you still dragged me to that hipster coffeeshop event and I pretended I enjoyed it!” Niall retorts while making his way around the coffee table to get to the kitchen.

 

Zayn smirks at that. “Yeah, and I remember you did a pretty shit job pretending,” he shouts back. He hears the cupboard slamming and Zayn can only imagine Niall is looking for a bag of chips.

 

“All I’m saying,” Niall begins, coming back to the living room, “is that you need to loosen up.”

 

Zayn looks up from his paper again when Niall returns and is surprised to see the other boy holding an unfamiliar bottle of alcohol in his hand.

 

“That isn’t from our stash,” Zayn states, sitting up, curiosity suddenly piqued.

 

The bottle is long, elegant, and the liquid amber. Definitely not something they could afford. Niall’s smile is wicked as he shrugs.

 

“My parents sent it from Mexico. _Mexican_ tequila, Zayn.” He takes back his spot on the couch, uncaps the bottle and wiggles his eyebrows. “So, what do you say?”

 

Zayn has two choices here: he could either be a responsible adult, turn down the offer and work on the assignment he has to do; or he could say ‘fuck it’ and join his insanely attractive roommate on their couch and indulge himself in insanely good alcohol and good company.

 

“Fuck it,” Zayn mutters and stands up to join Niall on the couch.

 

+

 

His throat is burning and numb all at once. His vision is blurry and sharp at the same time. He’s never really liked getting drunk, because he knows how much he’ll regret it in the morning and the missing pieces from his memory are sometimes enough to trigger a panic attack. But at the moment, with his shoulder and thigh pressed against Niall and the bottle going back and forth between them, he doesn’t really care. He’s too far gone anyway.

 

Half the bottle is downed already and the game is coming to an end. The Ravens are losing.

 

“There’s enough time for another touchdown, I’m telling ya,” Niall slurs, draping an arm around Zayn’s shoulder and taking a sip with his free hand.

 

“Wow,” Zayn laughs, “I don’t give a single shit about football,” he giggles into Niall’s neck and Niall slaps him lightly behind the head.

 

“Have a lil respect for the mighty team,” he says, gesturing wildly at the TV. The players on the screen are running and throwing the ball and it makes Zayn’s vision blurry trying to follow it.

 

Suddenly, Niall is up and screaming nonsense at the screen and Zayn registers it as the final minute, and a player on Niall’s team is running with the ball under his arm. The boy yanks Zayn up to his feet and manages to get him excited about whatever is happening.

 

“Yeah, touchdown!” he yells and bumps his chest with Zayn’s. “I told you they could do it! The mighty team!”

 

Zayn doesn’t really understand what’s going on but Niall is all red and looks really pretty with his disheveled blond hair, freckled arms and too-tight pants.

 

They sit back down on the couch and that’s when Zayn notices. Niall’s pants weren’t that tight earlier in the night, even though his brain is kind of fuzzy now with the tequila running in his veins. No, Niall’s pants are usually loose and slack, falling from his hips. This is totally different.

 

“Ni,” he begins, eyes wide and amused, “Did you-” he cuts himself with a giggle. “Did you get a hard on watching your favourite team win?”

 

Niall looks down at his lap, as if he hadn’t noticed. He palms cautiously at his jeans and lets out a low moan and then laughs. “I think I did,” he replies, awed.

 

“Is it something that happens frequently?” Zayn asks, eyeing it curiously.

 

“Nope,” Niall tells him and drags his hand gently over it, moaning again. “Must be the booze,” he reasons and to Zayn, it sounds like a very compelling argument.

 

“Should I- Do you want me to take care of it?” Zayn offers and he is definitely drunk out of his mind because sober him would never have the balls to do this.

 

“You would?” he asks, eyes bright and sparkling, a stupid look of surprise on his face.

 

Zayn scoots closer to whisper in his ear, “I think you need to loosen up a little,” and nibbles gently on his lobe. He moves on from his ear to his jaw, mouthing along the light stubble and down to his neck.

 

“Prick,” Niall giggles and whimpers when Zayn’s hands move under his shirt to brush against his nipple. Zayn simply smiles against his neck and sucks at the skin just under his jaw while his hands move further down Niall’s stomach.

 

“Off with that,” Zayn orders when he finally lets go of Niall’s neck, leaving a red angry hickey on his skin. He straddles his lap and pulls the dark shirt over Niall’s head, admiring the pale skin with his hands before leaning down to kiss him.

 

The kiss is clumsy, their nose bumping together along the way making Zayn laugh in Niall’s mouth. It’s a mess of tongues and teeth, but Niall moans in Zayn’s mouth so Zayn figures he must be doing something right when he slips his tongue into Niall’s opened mouth and sucks.

 

“Ah,” Niall pants when they break away for air. “Not that I’m dissatisfied with the previous events, but what exactly have you planned for my buddy down there?”

 

“Well, I was thinking about using my mouth for better purposes and sucking you off,” Zayn says as he slides off of Niall’s lap and down to the floor, kissing the trail of hair down Niall’s navel. “Any thoughts on the proposed course of action, Mr. Horan?”

 

“I’m giving the go-ahead,” he replies with a grin when Zayn’s fingers fiddles with the zipper. He drags the pants and the boxers down in one swift move, gripping Niall’s dick in his hand as it’s set free, stroking it slowly.

 

“Smartass,” Zayn mutters. He’s drunk, so probably delusional but at this very moment, Niall’s cock looks like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he feels as if he’s starving.

 

“Shut up and suck,” Niall complains, twisting his fingers in Zayn’s dark hair and pulls.

 

Zayn happily complies, takes the tip in his mouth and starts sucking fiercely, marvelling in the obscene sounds Niall is making. He’s got one hand curled at the base of the dick, the other gripping Niall’s hip to keep him steady on the couch.

 

“Come on Z, stop being a tease and give the guy a proper blowjob,” Niall whimpers, his breath hitching.

 

Zayn lets Niall’s dick slip out of his mouth at the words and licks from the base and up before swallowing him down. Niall is heavy in his mouth and Zayn loves it, loves the feeling of the hair against his nose and the fullness. Once he feels the tip hitting the back of his throat, he sucks fervently, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head to what he hopes is a steady rhythm.

 

“Fuck,” Niall gasps, his hips hitching up against the press of Zayn’s hand. “Fuck, not gonna last long.”

 

Zayn pulls away to breathe and ignores Niall’s sounds of protest while he mouths at his balls. “Wanna fuck my mouth, Ni? Would that make you come?”

 

“Hm,” Niall moans and the sound goes straight to Zayn’s dick. “Y-yeah, that’d be fine,” he pants and rubs a hand over his face. “Just- ah,” he whines, “Just do something.”

 

Zayn kisses his inner thigh and licks Niall’s cock one more time before releasing his hip. “Come on. Grip my hair and fuck my face.”

 

Niall is quick to obey, once more getting a hold of Zayn’s head and pushing in when the boy opens his mouth eagerly. It doesn’t take much before he comes, a thrust or two to the back of Zayn’s throat and he’s coming undone, white come landing on Zayn’s tongue and in the corner of his mouth. Zayn keeps sucking though, licking it clean through the orgasm until Niall feels lightheaded.

 

He doesn’t notice at first that Zayn is still sitting on the floor, a hand shoved down his pants, jerking himself rough and hard. He’s on the edge, Niall can tell. He’s got a smudge of come still at the corner of his mouth and God, Niall thinks, he’s hot.

 

“Need a hand?” he offers lazily, grinning at his own pun but Zayn is breathing loudly and comes with a shout muffled in Niall’s inner thigh.

 

“I think I’m good,” he pants and Niall tugs him up to his feet and back in his lap. He kisses him, tastes himself on his tongue and sighs happily.

 

“Tell me again how much you hate football?” he teases Zayn and dodges the pillow thrown at his head.

 

And that’s when it turns to shit.

 

+

 

They don’t talk about it.

 

When Zayn wakes up the next morning, it’s with a throbbing headache and a sore neck from falling asleep on the couch. The floor is still covered with his incomplete work, there are chips all over the table and Niall is nowhere in sight. Great.

 

It was definitely a mistake, Zayn can at least recognize this, but it was damn worth it because he hadn’t been laid in a while. Still, they don’t talk about it, mainly because there is nothing to talk about.

 

They banter around the kitchen table and argue about who gets to have the remote control and things are back to normal. Crisis averted.

 

+

 

The crisis is not averted. The memory haunts him a week later, while he’s alone at home because Niall went out to some stupid frat party Zayn really doesn’t care about. He thinks he should call his therapist. He’s had trouble concentrating, trouble sleeping, hell, trouble breathing. This whole situation is just a load of stress dumped on top of the stress of school and the stress of life in general.

 

He’s downed half a bottle of Margarita, the one with a girly name, and is sitting miserably on the couch. He dutifully ignores the pile of school work calling for him on the coffee table by closing his eyes and letting the feeling of the alcohol run through his veins. Behind his eyelids, he sees Niall’s skin, red and sweaty. He sees his swollen lips and the pink tongue peeking out in the corner.

 

He half acknowledges that he’s growing hard, but there are more pressing matters, like the bottle in his hand that is getting gradually lighter as the liquid fills Zayn’s veins instead. There’s also Niall’s body in Zayn’s mind, his moans and whimpers and _fuck_ , he’ll never touch alcohol ever again in his life because it turns him into such a fucking mess.

 

It would have been fine if he could’ve made it to his bed before Niall came back, but of course, he did not. He fell asleep right there, in the middle of the couch, the nearly empty bottle hanging loosely from his hand. Still, it would have been better if he didn’t fall asleep with a fucking _erection_ in the middle of the living room.

 

What makes it worse though, is that Niall chose then to come home, also drunk out of his mind, catching the quite pathetic sight of a passed out and horny Zayn on their couch.

 

Niall groans as he flops down next to Zayn, dropping his head on the sleeping boy’s shoulder and nudging him softly in the ribs.

 

“Zayn? Zaaaaayn?” he whispers, his mouth pressed against Zayn’s ear. “Get up, it’s late. You’ll hate yourself in the morning,” he tries to reason him, squeezing his thigh which gets Zayn’s dick to twitch with interest.

 

“I already hate myself,” Zayn mutters, burrowing his head in Niall’s neck.

 

“Yeah, that’s the spirit,” Niall cheers him with a giggle. “Come on, get your fat ass up, I ain’t hauling you back to bed.”

 

“Do you like my ass?” Zayn asks him suddenly, pushing himself off Niall to look him in the eyes.

 

“I love your ass,” Niall replies seriously.

 

“What about my dick?” Zayn tries, struggling to keep a straight face.

 

“It’s a great dick,” Niall replies, his mouth quirking up at one corner.

 

“It’s also very hard,” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows and Niall laughs at that.

 

“Will you promise to get to bed if I take care of your little problem?”

 

“I promise I will,” Zayn utters solemnly and Niall shrugs with a grin.

 

He doesn’t waste time with teasing and immediately yanks off Zayn’s track pants.  He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “No underwear today?”

 

Zayn shrugs. “You can’t force me to wear underwear in my own flat, can you?”

 

“Fair enough,” Niall laughs and wraps a hand at the base of Zayn’s dick.

 

It’s a sloppy handjob, Niall’s spit-slick hand working up and down Zayn’s cock quickly, but he still takes the time to relish in the unholy sounds Zayn is making under him, pressing a kiss to the shivers on Zayn’s neck. He squeezes his dick as he twists his wrist, feeling Zayn shake under him, panting, his mouth open wide but not making a sound.

 

“Come on baby, come for me,” he hisses in Zayn’s ear, his other hand reaching to press against Zayn’s balls. “It’s getting late, come on, spit it out.”

 

And Zayn does, with a harsh bite to Niall’s shoulder while Niall jerks him off through his orgasm until he slumps down against the blond boy, his eyes fluttering, ready to doze off again.

 

“Okay buddy time for bed,” Niall says, wrapping his arms around Zayn and lifting him off the couch.

 

“Thank you, Ni,” Zayn slurs, his head lolling on Niall’s shoulder.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Niall whispers.

 

+

When Zayn wakes up, there’s a glass of water and two tylenols on his bedside table. There’s also a note from Niall saying _out for a run catch you later_ next to a plate of pancakes on the stove.

 

Maybe things aren’t so bad after all.

 

+

It becomes their thing. They get drunk with whatever they have – vodka, rum, whiskey, bourbon – but Zayn still prefers the tequila. They make up some absurd reason, whether it’s stress, school or football. They drink until they’re comfortably numb, and they stop when they feel like their skin is on fire, when they feel lightning running through their veins.

 

They always make out, sometimes lazily on the couch, hungrily on Niall’s bed, messily in Zayn’s room. Their hands fumble with the zippers, their red lips stuck on each other’s throats, leaving bright red marks that fade to purple overnight.

 

They usually stick to handjobs and blowjobs, and sometimes they don’t even have time to take off their pants, and they come simply from the friction.

 

It’s getting harder to ignore, and every time one of them opens the liquor cabinet, they know what’s going to happen, yet neither mentions it. They go through the pain of the hangover just to get their hands and lips on each other.

 

And Zayn… wouldn’t call himself an alcoholic. But the fact remains, he imbibes a large quantity of alcohol almost daily in order to get off with his roommate and he feels the pit of emptiness in his stomach on the rare nights when he does not indulge in alcohol and Niall.

 

For a while though, he likes to pretend he’s got everything under control.

 

+

 

“You’ve been sleeping with the frat boy?” Louis screeches and Zayn is thankful for being an ocean away from his best friend right now. “And you overindulge yourself in alcohol in order to do so?”

 

“Look, I know it sounds bad like that-”

 

“It took me abandoning you for you to fully appreciate the college life,” Louis shakes his little pixelated head on the screen. “I’m so proud of you Zayn.”

 

“No you don’t get it, I can’t keep this up,” Zayn cuts him. “I told my therapist and she told my mom-”

 

“I thought this shit was supposed to be confidential?” Louis frowns.

 

“Yeah, well not when my life is allegedly in danger. Plus, my mom is the one paying her so…”

 

“Yeah I get it,” Louis says. “So you have to put an end to the drinking then.”

 

“Yeah, which means put an end with whatever I had going on with Niall,” Zayn sighs.

 

“Why though? Can’t you just bang him while sober? Is he really that bad?”

 

Zayn snorts. “He’s actually quite amazing but we’ve been using alcohol as an excuse to hook up with each other this whole time.”

 

“What and he won’t like you if you’re not intoxicated? Please, you both are really dumb if you wasted that much money on booze just to hook up. You’re awesome Zayn, and I’ll bet he’ll like your dick even more without the hazy drunken fog hovering over his brain cells.”

 

“Thanks Lou,” Zayn smiles, all warm and happy, and that’s when he realises how much he’s missed his best friend. “When did you get so smart?”

 

“England does that to you,” he waves him off.

 

+

 

Telling Niall he’s off the booze is easier than he’d imagine. He’s a pretty easy going guy, who doesn’t stress about much in life and doesn’t mind much anything either.

 

_He’s basically my opposite_ , Zayn thinks. He finds he doesn’t really mind.

 

“It’s alright,” Niall tells him with a squeeze of the shoulder and Zayn’s body sparks from just the touch and _when did he become such a girl?_ “More fun for me, right?”

 

_Right_ , Zayn thinks. “We need to talk,” he says instead.

 

“Really Zayn, it’s no big deal. Though you could’ve just said you wanted out of our little arrangement. No need to go full on detox man, I get it.”

 

Zayn is baffled. He’s confused and he’s craving a drink which he knows is the cabinet right over the sink just behind him. He told himself he wouldn’t do it though. He promised Louis, and his therapist and his mom. And Zayn always keeps his promises.

 

Except now he wish he didn’t.

 

“What-”

 

“Seriously it’s cool! I promise I won’t make it awkward or something,” Niall babbles and Zayn can’t help but think it’s fucking cute.

 

It’s totally not his fault when he steps forward, places his hands on each side of Niall’s head, and pulls him closer to slam his lips against his. It’s clumsy and desperate but Zayn doesn’t want to stop. He’s too afraid he’s made a mistake, too afraid that this isn’t what Niall wanted so he keeps kissing him, letting out a relieved sigh when Niall finally twists his fist in Zayn’s shirt and kisses him back. He’s licking at the inside of Niall’s mouth, swallowing down his soft noises until he can’t breathe and has to step back. He doesn’t move any further though. Instead, he chooses to rest his forehead against Niall’s and presumes that Niall is okay with this by the way he presses quick, chaste kisses to Zayn’s lips.

 

“Are we cool?” Zayn asks, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his chest.

 

Niall laughs, that goddamn marvelous sound, runs his hand in Zayn’s hair and places a kiss to the top of his nose.

 

“Yeah, we’re cool. But if you don’t mind, we’ll lay off the booze for a while. Pretty sure my liver is giving up.”

 

Zayn snorts. “Yeah, I think that’d be good. I’ll get drunk on the taste of you instead.”

 

“You poetic little bastard,” Niall giggles and kisses Zayn again.

 

+

 

(Soon after, a padlock has been put on the alcohol cabinet.)

 

+

 

“Fuck,” Zayn moans, his face pressed in the pillows that smell like chicken wings and sweat. They’re in Niall’s room. Zayn told him countless times before not to eat food on his bed because it leaves a smell, but Niall Horan is a stubborn bastard and he’ll do what he wants.

 

Zayn’s lying face down on the bed, his ass up with Niall’s hands tight around his hips as he’s pounding into him. “Ah, shit,” he pants.

 

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you,” Niall bends down to groan in his ear, changing the angle a little and ramming right into Zayn’s prostate. “You like it nice and hard.”

 

Zayn cannot speak coherently anymore so he simply whines and tries to wrap his hand around his cock as Niall keeps thrusting into him.

 

“Turns out,” Zayn pants out and whimpers when Niall quickens the pace. “Turns out I was right.”

 

“What are you talking about, baby?” Niall’s thrust are even faster and harder now and more erratic and Zayn knows that mean he won’t last long. He is on the edge himself.

 

“You- you really- _ah_ -”, Zayn groans low and bites down on the pillow as he comes, a hand wrapped around his cock and Niall pounding into him. The clenching of Zayn’s ass is just what Niall needs to climax and half a dozen rapid thrusts later, he follows Zayn into the bliss, coming hard into the condom.

 

He collapses over Zayn in a heavy sprawl and presses a trail of kisses from Zayn’s neck to shoulder before the older boy pushes him off his back.

 

“What’s up with your chitchat during sex?” Niall asks Zayn when he’s cooled down enough, his fingers hovering over Zayn’s chest and a leg thrown between Zayn’s.

 

“Oh yeah,” Zayn’s eyes light up. “I’ll get to torment Louis forever,” he tells him with a playful smirk. “You know, since you really did turn out to be a pain in my ass after all,” he adds with a wink to a confused and sleepy Niall.

 

“You’re weird,” is all Niall says before he lays his head on Zayn’s chest and let the breathing of his boyfriend lull him to sleep.

 

+

 

(“No, but hear me out, just think how awkward it’ll be when your future children ask you how you got together. What are you gonna say? ‘Blame the alcohol?’ ‘Blame uncle Louis?’ ‘Blame the fucking Ravens for giving papa Niall a hard on?’”

 

“God Louis, shut the fuck up.”)

 

+

 

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> There you go IrishCharm! Hope you liked and it lived up to your expectations, it was an awesome prompt. :))


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